


For Sammy

by Berettasalts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, explicit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 19:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berettasalts/pseuds/Berettasalts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has been possessed by Lucifer. Lucifer's wearing Sam. Dean's confused as hell because he should hate the sonofabitch, yet he can't stop himself from seeing Sam whenever he looks into Lucifer's eyes, and he's not entirely convinced it's his imagination. Dubcon, Dean/Lucifer, explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Sammy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soullessbrothers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/gifts).



> This began as a fic exchange for Helen, who is a much better writer than I am.

The prompt is: Lucifer!Sam manipulating Dean into bed, because Sam’s hurting, and Dean can’t resist, because he knows that Sam’s in there somewhere.

  
  
  
  


The moment Dean closes the door behind him, breathing in the comforting scent of skeevy motel room that he’s come to associate with the closest thing he’ll ever know to a home, he’s fiercely glad that Dad’s training taught him to keep the glock or beretta handy at all times. Sam would always give him a funny look when Dean slipped it into his jacket before going out for breakfast or dinner, to which Dean would respond with a cheerful, “Let’s roll.” Call it second-nature, call it an instinct after so long in the game, but he’s glad for it now because he knows immediately that he’s not alone, and he doesn’t even have to think twice before the gun is in his hand, cocked and loaded. The room appears empty, but Dean isn’t fooled. Someone is here.

 

Movement behind him has Dean spinning around, and he comes face to face with the last person he expected to see. Sam only stares back at him, seeming almost amused to find a weapon pointed at him, as though Dean would ever use it on his little brother. Dean’s betting the sonofabitch was counting on that, because this sure as hell isn’t Sam. Not anymore. They stare at each other for a moment, and Dean feels childish for vainly hoping that maybe it really is Sam, that he could see even a spark of who his brother used to be in his eyes. He knows better. Sam is gone, or at least buried very deeply, and in his place is this monster wearing his skin.

 

“You’ve got thirty seconds,” Dean bites out harshly, his voice gravelly and rough and sounding foreign to his own ears. “Make it count.”

 

“Really, Dean,” Sam says mildly, raising an eyebrow, and it’s such an infuriatingly superior Sam expression that Dean has a hard time keeping his hand steady. “You’re smarter than that. Would I be here alone and unarmed, if it was that easy?”

 

“Consecrated bullets, bitch,” Dean returns with vindictive satisfaction. “Infused with holy oil and each one inscribed with Enochian. Probably won’t kill you. I’m still betting it'll hurt like hell.”

 

Sam laughs, very quietly. Dean has no idea why that choice of phrasing strikes him as funny.

 

“I’m not here to fight you, Dean.”

 

“You stole my brother, you ugly-ass feathered freak. We don’t talk. I shoot, you bleed, and then I cut you into little pieces, and salt and burn the remains.”

 

“Except, you won’t. Dean, you couldn’t do that to your little brother’s body the first time he died. Do you really expect me to believe you would do it now?”

 

Dean says nothing, but the twitch in his jaw gives him away. He should do it. Ever since, for whatever unfathomable reason, Sam had decided to let this grotesque, evil creature possess him, Dean’s instincts had been screaming at him to end it. The problem lay in the fact that those instincts were at war with others, with a much bigger part of him that said _protect Sam._ And that part of him was more deeply ingrained than any other. It was a fundamental piece of who he was, one that he could not detach himself from without losing a decent chunk of his soul.

 

Sam already knows the answer, and so does he. “Why don’t you sit down,” he says. Dean shoots him another filthy look, but he finally lowers the gun, and then lowers himself stiffly onto the bed that isn’t piled with gear. Sam sits across from him, in a hideous patterned armchair. As far as motels go, this isn’t the worst Dean’s ever seen, not by far, but he also isn’t going to impress any prom dates.

 

“Sam is unhappy,” he begins, and it just keeps getting weirder, because Dean still isn’t used to hearing Sam talk about himself in the third person. Dean has to continually remind himself that it’s Lucifer wearing that meatsuit. His mannerisms, his gestures are so very much like Sam, even the way he is looking at Dean right now, with a touch of superior self-righteousness that makes Dean want to smack this smug bitch right in the mouth. He hates it. Lucifer doesn’t get to look at him that way, it’s reserved for Sam alone and damned if Dean is going to make it that easy for him.

 

It’s such a ridiculously ironic statement, that Dean finds himself laughing. There’s nothing happy about it. “No kidding.”

 

“I’m serious, Dean.” Sam is wearing that look of impatience he always used to get, when he was trying to make Dean understand why this thing or that thing was extremely important and Dean should be paying attention. Dean used to get a kick out of riling his brother up and watching him get all huffy by pretending not to understand, when they both knew damn well that he did. Many things Dean was, but stupid he was not.

 

“I believe you. Sam’s understandably pissed because he was tricked, and now you’re stuck with him riding shotgun. I imagine he’s got some choice words for you. You should know, I taught him most of his material.”

 

Before Dean is even finished speaking, Sam is shaking his head slowly. “You misunderstand, Dean. Sam wasn’t tricked. I have never manipulated him in any way. Do you think I would do that to him?”

 

“You’re lying.” Dean isn’t at all as sure as he sounds, but, he has to believe it. Sam, as long as he is under his own power, would never submit to this ultimate douchebag of douchebag angels, not of his own free will. There has to be more to it. Dean still doesn’t know the whole story, or quite understand how it went down. Maybe he never will. But he has to believe that Sam has enough humanity left in him that he would fight this asshole to the bitter end. He has to believe it, because the alternative would be unthinkable.

 

“Please, Dean,” Sam says, in that infuriatingly haughty tone. “Those games that Zachariah and Gabriel played with you? Trying to force you into playing your roles? That’s not my style. I don’t use force to get what I want.”

 

“Bull _shit_ , you don’t.”

 

“I don’t. Because I don’t have to.” Sam tilts his head, and now that he’s looking closer, Dean’s sure he can see some of the differences in the angles of his face. They’re sharper, more defined, and his eyes are smooth and deceptively calm, the blue-hazel of very still waters hiding vicious currents under the surface. Dean’s sure that he can see a flicker of something hideously ugly behind the human facade, but he might have imagined it. “I am the original master of manipulation, Dean. What is a rejection? The word ‘No?’ A word cannot stop me. No one says no to me forever.”

 

“Yeah.... well.” This subject matter is making Dean uncomfortable. What’s done is done, Sam is lost to him and nothing he does or says is going to bring him back. “Why do you care what I think?”

 

“I care,” Sam says immediately, leaning forward with such force of sincerity that Dean blinks several times and almost believes him. Almost. “Of course I care, Dean. Sam is in physical pain without you, and I feel everything that he feels. I cannot exist in this body and not care about you.”

 

This time, although Dean can’t respond right away, he inwardly stiffens. His expression has gone stone cold, which Sam, if he were Sam, would recognize immediately as the automatically triggered defense mechanism that masked any emotions he might be feeling, because Dean doesn’t feel any goddamn emotions and by now, everyone should know that. How _dare_ he? How fucking _dare_ Lucifer claim to care about either his brother or himself, and moreover, to suggest that he was suffering right there along with them? No. He does _not_ have that right.

 

“You don’t know what it’s like in here, Dean,” Sam says quietly. “It’s... it’s worse than a physical compulsion. Sam aches without your physical presence, without your touch. I thought I was prepared to handle your codependency, but I was not prepared for this and it has taken me... unawares.”

 

A very uncharacteristic sound of displeasure almost rips itself out of Dean’s throat at the thought of just how much his baby brother must be suffering, which Dean stops just in time. Very conspicuously, he dislodges the clip from the baretta into his palm, and makes a show of checking that it’s a full round before he snaps it back into place again with a vengeance.

 

“So shit just got real,” he says tightly. His voice sounds far too rough for his own liking. “Guess this whole ‘vessel’ thing ain’t gonna work so well as you thought, is it? Seems to me the simple solution here is to get the hell out of Sam. Can’t say I’m gonna miss you, but send my regards to everyone in the Pit on your way by.”

 

“You know I can’t do that, Dean,” Sam says with a tight little smile. God, why can’t he stop looking at this creature and seeing Sam? It’s bad enough that he’s wearing Sam’s face and using all of his mannerisms flawlessly, but Dean hates more than anything that he can’t seem to look at him and not see _Sam._ Even now, knowing what he is, Sam is Sam. Sam is his brother, his lover, the most important thing in his life, the _only_ important thing in his life.

 

“Then, what the hell?” he snaps, getting irritated. If Satan is looking for fucking sympathy, after all, he is clearly barking up the wrong tree. Dean gets to his feet and stalks over to the mini-bar, ripping the label off of the tissue-wrapped tumbler and pouring himself two fingers from the bottle of Johnnie Walker he’d picked up earlier. “Why are you here, Sam?” Dean almost flinched at the hardness in his own voice on saying his brother’s name, but a part of him just wasn’t sorry at all. “You thought you’d come here, confess all your woes to me and we’d sing Kumbaya together? It doesn’t work that way, you fucking dick.”

 

Sam tilts his head, watching Dean with patient amusement. It makes his skin crawl. To help with the problem, he pours himself three fingers this time, and by now the pleasant numbing sensation of really good whiskey is beginning to seep through his veins, bringing with it blessed relief and the eventual promise of oblivion. This has been Dean’s pattern for many nights now, and one that he isn’t looking to change any time soon.

 

“Singing wasn’t exactly on the agenda,” Sam says neutrally, and this time, in spite of himself, Dean can feel his skin warming under the heated look Sam gives him, and he goes from confused, irritated, and cranky to wide awake and aware in about point four seconds. “I was going to work up to this, but, well, fuck it. I want to fuck you. Here. Now.”

 

Dean abruptly chokes on his whiskey, and Sam, unhelpful asshole that he is, makes no move to help him and waits patiently through it while Dean nearly dies hacking up a lung. When it’s over and he can breathe again, Dean is actually disappointed because it would serve the bastard right if he _did_ choke to death, completely negating Sam’s purpose for coming to him in the first place.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that last part due to a temporary moment of _insanity_ ,” he says. “You think you’re going to _what_ now?”

 

“I want to fuck you, Dean. _Sam_ wants to fuck you. He wants it so badly, that he is actually making it very difficult for me to concentrate on anything. Sam remembers sharing a bed with you, how it felt when you let him in, and he craves it to the point where I am forced to feel the physical repercussions of his desire. I find this troublesome. There is one solution. We must copulate in order to keep Sam happy.”

 

Dean says nothing, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand until the knuckles are as white as his face. What could he possibly say to that? Did Lucifer honestly believe this was something he would agree to? For a moment he seriously considers that this must be a dream, but then he remembers that if it was, there would be a lot less Lucifer and at least three more strippers. With that theory depressingly out of the question, he breifly entertains the possibilities of alien abductions or some kind of fucked-up parallel universe.

 

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. Ever.”

 

Sam sighs. It’s a hollow, pitying sound, and where does his snot-nosed little brother get off treating _him_ like a recalcitrant child? “I’m surprised at you, Dean. Would you really forsake your little brother just to spite me?”

 

That’s actually not the way Dean sees this situation at all, and he’s momentarily baffled as to how easily Sam - Lucifer - can twist his meaning like that, as though he were the bad guy, here. He figures he’s very clearly got the moral high ground, not being the one possessing Sam’s body against his will (Dean has to believe that or he won’t know _what_ to believe) and if Sam disagrees he can really just go suck on Baby’s tailpipe for all Dean cares. Dean wonders for a moment, under the warm, pleasant buzz of the alcohol, if he actually means that in a literal sense.

 

“I can’t - it’s not - it doesn’t work that way, Sam.” Dean can feel his voice cracking, and he hates it. Even as he continues to remind himself that this monster is not his little brother - this monster is the thing that killed his little brother - he just can’t convince himself. Sammy’s body is alive and whole, and Dean wants so badly to believe that it’s him in there. Or at least a part of him. That when he looks into his eyes, the exact gray-blue colour of a southern summer storm, that a part of what he’s seeing is still his brother. Is still _Sammy_.

 

Sam’s eyes flash, probably picking up on some physical sign of indecision like a goddamn predator scenting fear, and he stands smoothly and begins to move towards Dean. He holds his ground, but, as his towering and not-so-little younger brother gets closer, Dean feels a momentary flare of panic as he realizes that if this is Sam’s intent, then he may not actually stand much of a chance of physically resisting him.

 

Then again, let the bastard try. If Dean goes down, he’ll damned well go down swinging.

 

“I think it can,” Sam breathes quietly, bending across the counter and making the small kitchenette seem no larger than a doll’s playhouse.

 

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous,” Dean snaps. “I slept with _Sam_. I had sex with _Sam_. I am _not_ sleeping with the monster that killed him.”

 

“There is no need for melodrama. I know you, Dean. You will give anything to keep your little brother happy, including your own body. You Winchesters are always ready to make the sacrifice play, this really shouldn’t be a difficult decision on your part.”

 

“Screw you,” Dean says violently, and when Sam’s eyes light and he opens his mouth, Dean beats a hasty retreat and backpedals. “No, really, I mean you can go fuck _yourself_. I am _not_ having this conversation.”

 

Dean starts to pull away, and when Sam calmly steps into his path of retreat, Dean takes a mental tally of just what weapons are nearby him or within arm’s reach, because if the little bitch thinks he’s going to outflank him then Sam’s got another thing coming.

 

“You don’t want to fight with me, Dean,” Sam says, and damn, Dean can feel the heat rolling off of him in waves. Sleeping with Sam was always a bit like having a very large space heater in your bed, a fact which Dean was grateful for during cold winter nights in drafty motel rooms whenever they crossed the northern states, but it was nothing compared to the way he felt now. He wasn’t even touching Dean, and it felt as though if he did he might actually be roasted alive.

 

“Well I sure as hell don’t want to fuck you,” snaps Dean, and overall, he’s pleased that his voice sounds so sure. The truth is, that with Sammy so close to him like that, combined with the fact that Dean _misses_ him, he _misses_ Sam’s warmth and his stupid smiling puppy-dog eyes; that and the fact that it’s been a _really_ long time since Dean actually got laid (and much longer since it was by someone other than Sam), all of those things are working against him, and throwing the odds very heavily in Lucifer’s favor. Dean is beginning to see why he’s got a reputation for being so goddamn manipulative. Can he feel the way Dean’s body aches for his brother, too? Is that why he chose this moment, this night, when Dean is feeling every inch of his doubt and uncertainty? It seems like the only rational explanation, here, and he’s too old and jaded to believe it’s a coincidence.

 

Are you sure about that?” Sam asks quietly, leaning forward. Whoa! Hold on, now just when did he get so damn close? Dean backs up a pace but finds himself against the other side of the wrap-around counter. He curses inwardly. _Crap_. Now he has nowhere to go, but Dean grips the edge of the counter in both hands anyway because if Sam comes so much as another step closer, Dean is going to kick him in the teeth and make a run for it.

 

That’s the plan, but he can’t bring himself to put it into action when Sam leans forward and the heat of him washes over Dean.

 

“You smell like I remember,” he says, very quietly. Dean’s heart flip-flops in his chest. He’s over the whole bad-wrong-dirty side of this fucked-up thing he and Sam have - had - going on. Long over it. There’s very little about their lives that isn’t fucked up at this point, and Dean figures that as far as rules go, he’s already been to hell and incest really doesn’t rank all that high on his list of sins. But this.... this is a whole new level of wrong.

 

And Dean only grips the countertop harder as Sam leans forward, hot breath against his neck, and Dean can feel the softness of his lips as he whispers, “If it helps, you can pretend this is just a dream.”

 

Dean blinks his eyes open (not realizing he had closed them) and some of his focus returns. It takes him a moment to really process Sam’s words - Dean’s treacherous brain is busy already imagining all the bad, filthy things he wants to do to Sam - things he would never have suggested doing with his baby brother, because Sam did not deserve to be sullied by Dean’s debauchery. Things that Sam, as much as Dean loved him, had always been just a bit too proper, a bit too reserved for. Things that Lucifer in Sam’s body would not hesitate to do with him, and somehow he must have sensed the shift in Dean’s emotions because Sam was suddenly pressed right up against him, his mouth hot and urgent against his neck and a hand tightening in Dean’s short hair, jerking his head to the side with a quick, no-nonsense motion that gave him whiplash and exposing his throat to hungry, openmouthed kisses.

 

“Oh,” Dean breathes, higher-pitched than he means to as his eyelids flutter again. “I am _so_ going to hell.”

 

Sam chuckles. Dean can feel the vibration of it through his entire body. “Sam,” he moans, and Sam’s name carries with it all of the longing, the urgency, the wanting he’s been carrying inside him. Because like it or not, he does still want Sam. He can’t stand the thought of not having him, not with Sam this close and _needing_ it so badly. Even if Lucifer was just fucking with him (har har, no pun intended), what kind of asshole would he have to be to deny Sam this?

 

The answer, obviously, is that Dean is exactly that kind of asshole - to everyone whose last name isn’t “Winchester.”

 

Sam’s so huge and his arms are so long that Dean feels like he’s surrounded, especially when Sam kisses him hotly, tongue thrusting in earnest, and leans forward so that Dean’s uncomfortably bent backwards over the sharp edge. He grunts in pain and, when Sam doesn’t let up, gets his hands against his brother’s chest and shoves, freeing his mouth. “Hey! Take it easy, I don’t bend that way, you big, hairy gorilla.”

 

Sam eases back, looking into his eyes with something that could be very close to affection. The hand in his hair loosens as well, but Sam continues to massage his scalp, and damn, Sam always knew that could calm him down. “Do you consent, then?”

 

“What?”

 

“To intercourse.”

 

Dean still feels dazed, but he does have the presence of mind to stop and marvel at the fact that Sam is choosing to ask him this question now, with his big arms surrounding him like steel bands and the taste of him in Dean’s mouth. “You’re asking my permission _now_?”

 

Dean isn’t prepared for the violent look of disdain Sam gives him in response. “You may be more acquainted with the tactics employed by my self-righteous brothers, Dean, but I am not like them. I take consent _very_ seriously. If you are going to let me fuck you, then you’re going to _want_ it. I will not jeopardize your free will.”

 

Dean laughs, in spite of the way those words sound so damn dirty coming from Sam. Zachariah, Castiel, and Michael all care nothing about his free will, and he’s supposed to believe the Devil does?

 

“It is the only way this will work,” he continues. His hand comes down to touch Dean’s chin, lifting it with a single long finger. “The only way I will be satisfied with. The only way _Sam_ will be satisfied with. Do you honestly think it would serve to quiet Sam if I raped you, Dean?”

 

He must be high, or stoned, or possibly piss-ass drunk, because this twisted logic is starting to resemble something very close to actual sense. He even has a point, but damned it Dean is going to admit it out loud. “Thought you had issues with the word ‘no,’” Dean quips. He’s proud as ever of his quick mouth, since his brain might actually be suffering from a serious lack of blood flow at the moment.

 

Sam’s mouth quirks. “I never said that I wasn’t persuasive.”

 

His hand slips around to the back of Dean’s neck, but he doesn’t haul him forward, instead stroking his thumb along the stubbled ridge of Dean’s jaw. Dean licks his lips, and when Sam’s eyes flicker down to follow the path of his tongue with focused intensity, a flash of heat rips through him again, and he is completely and utterly torn. On one hand he should have put a bullet in this bastard’s brain the second he walked into the room, and why does Dean owe him anything? But this isn’t about Lucifer, or even about him. This is about _Sam_. This is really about the fact that Sam is in pain, and he needs Dean to make it stop. To give him comfort, if only for a little while. Even if this is only to shut him up, does it really matter at this point? Dean will do it, if it will stop Sam’s pain.

 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean says, looking into his brother’s eyes so that Sam can see, _know_ , that this is for him. “I got you. You know I do.”

 

Sam’s face smiles, his eyes lighting up the way they used to on those Christmases when Dean would tell him Dad had stopped by during the night and left presents, even if he was sorry he couldn’t stay - at least until the year that Sam had caught him in the lie. “He can hear you, Dean,” he whispers, and he takes Dean’s mouth in a kiss, more insistent this time. Dean, with no choice but to kiss back, reflects dimly that for being so concerned about his goddamn _consent_ Lucifer sure as hell didn’t waste any time, but then he wonders if saying the word out loud really means anything. Dean is already saying yes, screaming it loudly with every fibre of his body, and without thinking his arms come up to hold Sam to him. It’s a different kiss than what he’s used to, but also different than he had expected - and with a new flavour of earth and ash, something heated that hadn’t been there before.

 

Sam doesn’t leave him time to reflect on it. Suddenly his feet leave the ground, and Sam manhandles him up onto the counter while they’re kissing, pulling Dean’s legs around him. It’s aggressive and a little needy, and maybe it’s fair to say that if Dean were the one locked in a cage for a couple of millennia, he’d be a bit needy by this point, too. He gets a hand in Sam’s hair, which is much easier to get a grip on than his own, and kisses him with everything Dean Winchester has to offer because damnit, he’s not about to be out-performed, here. Sam growls then into his mouth, and a moment later Dean hears a solid ripping sound. It takes cold air on his nipples to realize that Sam just destroyed his Zepplin t-shirt - something he barely forgave the first time around when Sam was four and had just discovered magic markers.

 

“You bitch, I’m going to _kill_ you!” he roars, breaking the kiss and glaring at him in righteous fury. Sam only gives him a condescending look, but Dean is (moderately) pacified when he tosses the shirt to the bed, and it’s whole again. He snorts, like he’s supposed to be impressed, and Sam’s eyes blaze into him as his hands come down hard on Dean’s hips. This time, the heat sears through the tough fabric and scorches him, and Dean yelps as Sam’s palms burn deliberate smoking handprints into his jeans, watching his eyes the entire time. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , god _damn_ it,” Dean curses violently, shuddering. Sam tears the remains of his jeans, and boxers from his body, leaving Dean nearly naked with two smoking handprints at his sides. He sits perfectly still, panting heavily, and his reward for his patience comes when Sam strokes his hands over the burn marks and Dean can feel them soothing the sting, like a cooling balm. He continues stroking Dean’s hips until he can’t feel the pain anymore, and the acrid smell of burnt flesh is gone from the air. He kisses Dean again and it’s more tender than it should be. Dean can’t breathe. His heart is pounding in his chest, and the lightheaded, giddy sensation is overwhelming him.

 

Dean’s still got the presence of mind for revenge, though, and he grips two fistfulls of Sam’s flannel shirt, popping the buttons one by one. “You destroy my clothes, I get to destroy yours,” he says to Sam’s look, but Sam only raises an eyebrow and nods. Well, so sue Dean if he can’t do that magic fire thing with his hands. He scrambles with the belt buckle, figuring that if he can make up for it by being quick about it, then maybe he can still come out on top, here.

 

Once they’re naked and Sam is hot and hard against him, doing delicious things to his neck and shoulder with his mouth, Dean squirms a hand between them to get his fist around the beast Sam packs behind his jeans. He remembers this part too, the feeling of being split wide open around him, and his mouth waters in anticipation. He wants it in him, and he doesn’t much care where, but Sam’s grip tightens when Dean tries to unwrap his legs, so it looks like he’ll be leaving the blowjob for another time.

 

“C’mere,” Sam murmurs, taking his mouth again and lifting him like he’s some kind of rag doll. The thought of Sam using him like that, of just holding him still and fucking his hole like it’s all he’s good for, has Dean moaning into Sam’s mouth, and maybe a little bit of pleading (he’ll deny it later if he has to). Sam gets his hands on Dean’s ass, large enough to cover it easily, and lifts him. Dean has an awful premonition then, especially when he becomes aware of something very large and very blunt nudging at his opening.

 

“Hold on!” he gasps, because Sam’s fucking huge and at this angle, he might actually stand a chance of tearing Dean open. Sam pauses, standing completely immobile, and Dean has to take a moment to be impressed that Sam is actually holding his entire weight on the strength of his arms alone. “You - I can’t,” Dean pants, breathless. “You gotta prep me if I’m gonna take that thing whole.”

 

Sam raises his eyebrow again. He says nothing, but Dean feels a surge of power shoot from his fingertips into Dean’s body - he almost flinches, expecting to get burned again - but when it’s over, his glutes are completely relaxed and warm. Dean can feel the immediate loosening of his outer sphincter as well, and it’s a decidedly odd sensation, mildly speaking. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels weird. A little good, but weird, and lacking something because he actually does enjoy the feeling of Sam’s fingers scissoring inside him, opening him up. Clearly, the Devil has no patience for such preliminaries. He even remembered lubrication. Dean wonders if he should feel flattered.

 

Sam lifts him higher, and angles his hips again. Dean feels the head of his dick nudge his opening, and gasps. “Oh, god.”

 

Sam hisses. It’s an angry sound. He pulls Dean away from the counter, supporting them both on the power of his legs, tilts his hips just right and lets Dean’s body just _slide_ smoothly down in his hands. Dean falls at least another six inches, and he shouts again and hangs on as Sam’s hands tighten again on his flanks and hold them together. “Holy, _fuck_!”

 

“Better,” Sam murmurs, going back to kissing his jaw again, and it occurs to Dean that Sam may actually not have liked him talking about God just now. Go figure. Dean tilts his head back, overwhelmed by the sensation running through him and the current of power he can still feel humming from his brother’s fingertips. He can’t do much from this position, but Sam doesn’t seem to care. He’s lifting Dean and yanking him down hard (it should hurt, but somehow it doesn’t), over and over again, fucking up into him and using him like a blow-up doll, a fucktoy, sliding him up and down so that Dean can feel Sam splitting him open, every glorious inch of him. He trembles. He can’t help it. This is so far beyond anything they’ve done before, Sam has fucked him in many positions; in chairs, on top of counters, in cramped closets and against walls, but never like this, never standing in the middle of the room with nothing to support them. Dean feels weightless, and Sam keeps pounding him relentlessly, not easing up, giving him no chance to breathe or recover.

 

“Yes, yes, Dean,” he hears Sam mutter, and his hips pick up speed as he drives Dean down harder, stuttering. Dean hears the plea in his brother’s voice - he’s not sure anymore if it’s Lucifer, or Sam, and at this point, he doesn’t honestly care - and shushes him with his mouth, threading a hand through his hair and bracing himself for the ride. Sam groans, the sound reverberating deep into Dean’s mouth, and it undoes him. Sam shakes and trembles, his rhythm faltering, and for a moment it feels like they’re falling, but Dean throws an arm behind him and feels his weight come down on the counter again. Sam pumps once, twice, three more times, fucking in through the slick of his own come. Dean can feel it beginning to leak out between his legs. The counter’s going to be a mess. Dean’s glad he’ll never have to eat off of it again.

 

He doesn’t say anything in the silence between them - he isn’t sure if there’s anything he _can_ say. Dean’s feeling all kinds of confused now, but fortunately he’s very good at burying conflicting emotions so that they’ll never come back to haunt him. Sam pulls away, and gazes at him with a stupid look of awed wonder on his face. He isn’t even sweating, Jesus.

 

Dean feels them shift again, and Sam must have brought him around the counter because he finds himself stretched out on the bed. Sam follows him down, and Dean only remembers that he’s still hard when Sam wraps a skilled hand around him and he sucks in a breath, sensitized. Sam’s fingers are ridiculously gentle, and they’re everywhere, fingering his balls and touching his aching hole. That soothing sensation passes through him again, and by the time Dean is coming, he’s utterly relaxed and warm, and Sam is whispering praises into his mouth while he strokes him softly.

 

He isn’t sure how long he lays there, whether it’s hours or minutes, but eventually he cracks open one eye to peer at the body next to him. He isn’t sure what he expected to find, but Sam is still staring at him and Dean can feel the warmth, love, and affection washing over him as Sam tightens his arms. His eyes are shining, and Dean thinks he might be seeing tears. They’re the wide, adoring eyes that have looked at him that way his entire life, and Dean’s breath hitches in his throat. He leans down to capture Sam’s lips, kissing him with deep promise, the promise he’s always made to his little brother - that he would be there to protect him. Always. Even at the end.

 

When he pulls away, it’s Lucifer looking back at him again.

 

“I’ll always take care of him,” the Devil says quietly.

 

Dean can feel the truth of it, deep in his bones. “I know,” he replies.

 


End file.
